


Hold on, kids, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride (the perfectly smooth remix)

by kiwiana



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/kiwiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam only has one wish to make come true before he dies, and if it goes the way he wants it to, it won’t be the desperate act of a dying man. Instead, it will give them both something to live for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold on, kids, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride (the perfectly smooth remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Perfectly Smooth Ball on a Perfectly Smooth Plane](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/67188) by latentfunction. 



> Spoilers through to the end of season five, with specific spoilers for 1.12 ‘Faith’, 2.01 ‘In My Time of Dying’, 2.20 ‘What Is and What Should Never Be’, 2.22 ‘All Hell Breaks Loose: Part Two’, 3.16 ‘No Rest for the Wicked’, 4.06 ‘Yellow Fever’, and 5.18 ‘Dark Side of the Moon’.
> 
> A remix of "A Perfectly Smooth Ball on a Perfectly Smooth Plane" by LJ user latentfunction, for the Kamikaze Remix challenge 2009.
> 
> None of the Supernatural characters belong to me, or I'd be a lot richer than I am.
> 
> Originally published on LiveJournal 2010-09-28.

Sam Winchester has a bucket list.  
  
What makes his list different to most, though, is that Sam’s bucket list isn’t for himself. Tucked away in a pocket of his knapsack, too sacred to commit to the computer, is a handwritten, travel-stained list. In neat cursive, this list details his brother’s seven dying wishes—wishes that Sam is determined to make come true, no matter the cost.   
  
In Nebraska, when they think Dean’s heart is failing, Sam barely catches the muttered “Just wanted to find Dad before you went back to school,” too busy choking on his own grief. After Dean is healed, he pulls a piece of scrap paper out of his pocket and writes  _FIND DAD_ , determined that his brother should get his second chance.   
  
Back then, back when all that worried them was finding their father and his grief over Jess, Sam didn’t realise they were starting a trend. He tucks the piece of paper into his laptop bag and doesn’t give it another thought.  
  
After the car crash, Dean wakes up when no one thought he would. It doesn’t take long for the trademark, cocksure grin to creep back onto his face; he’s smirking when he says, “Damn, Sammy, I thought I’d never get a chance to take you to Six Flags.”   
  
It’s almost a week later that Sam is rummaging around in his laptop case, trying to find an errant flash drive, when his hand brushes the piece of paper. He pulls it out, his fingers tracing the single line already written there before he pulls out a pen and scribbles down the half-joking statement Dean made in his hospital bed.  
  
Months later, Dean gets on the wrong side of a Djinn and almost bleeds to death in some backwoods shed. When Sam finds him, his lips are cracked and bleeding, his breathing laboured, and Sam’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of him. They’re stumbling towards the car when Dean whispers something under his breath that Sam doesn’t quite catch. He tosses a puzzled glance in Dean’s direction but before he can ask, Dean repeats: “I’ve always wanted a tattoo.”   
  
Sam sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t need to ask to know that the Djinn’s skin markings have prompted this particular wish, but a few days later when Dean’s out picking up dinner, he scrawls it down on the list anyway.  
  
Dean sells his soul for Sam’s, because Dean is a moron who can’t let things be. Sam is furious. He yells, he throws a punch or two. Dean just stands there until all Sam’s anger dissipates and he sinks to the floor, long legs stretched in front of him as he rests his head against the wall.  
  
“Why?” Sam asks. Dean sighs.  
  
“Because you deserve to have a normal life, Sammy. Because you have that chance, and I wish you’d take it.”  
  
It’s the most selfish thing Sam’s written on the list so far, but he adds it faithfully anyway.  
  
Dean’s deal comes up despite everything Sam tries. Dean is exasperatingly calm and accepting of the whole thing, even as Sam tries, right down to the wire, to find him an out. It’s not until the hellhounds are scratching at the door that there’s even a hint of regret in Dean’s eyes.  
  
“Promise me you’ll keep fighting, Sammy,” he begs, his knuckles white where his hands are fisted in Sam’s shirt. Sam hears what Dean’s really asking:  _Don’t give in, don’t lose yourself._  He promises, the words catching in his throat as he realises they’re the last they’ll ever say to one another.  
  
When Dean returns from Hell, he’s different somehow. Sam can’t quite put his finger on it, but even he doesn’t anticipate a case where Dean is literally being scared to death. Sam looks for a way to help his brother as Dean runs screaming from Yorkies and cats, flinching when Dean grabs his arm tight enough for his fingernails to draw blood.  
  
“I wasn’t supposed to come back, Sammy,” Dean says, his eyes darting fearfully around the room. Sam tries to protest, but Dean shushes him. “I wish my heart would slow down, just for a second. Just once, I wanna be able to enjoy my last day on earth, you know?”   
  
And really, there’s nothing Sam can say to that, so he settles for keeping Dean alive.  
  
The night they wake up to guns pointing in their faces, neither of them is surprised. Really, Sam doesn’t understand how it took other hunters so long to find the two of them; it’s not like they’ve been subtle over the last few months.   
  
There’s an eternity and a second between the shotgun blast and Sam feeling the bullet in his chest. In that moment, Sam realises that the bucket list is over—no matter what happens from here on out, they’re running on faith and determination. No more wishing for what they could have had.  
  
When they come back, though, Sam moves the list from his laptop bag to the glove compartment. If Dean notices, he doesn’t say anything, and he never picks it up and reads it.  
  
Under Dean’s list is one more entry. Sam only has one wish to make come true before he dies, and if it goes the way he wants it to, it won’t be the desperate act of a dying man. Instead, it will give them both something to live for.

* * *

One item on the list— _Get a tattoo_ —is struck through, with ‘April ‘07’ written beside it. That day is seared into Sam’s brain the way the devil’s trap is branded into his chest—the way the tattoo artist, a tiny brunette with more skin coloured than not, smirked when they said they wanted matching ink while Sam blushed and stammered and Dean just grinned lewdly; how Dean barely flinched as the needle pierced his skin, his clenched fist the only indicator that he could even feel it; the swell of Sam’s cock as he watched beads of sweat slide down his brother’s exposed chest, the hardness only intensifying when it was his turn to be tattooed. It was then, watching the girl flirt with Dean even as she straddled Sam in a way that was probably not entirely necessary in order to ink him up, that he realised what he felt for his brother went beyond an illicit jerk-off fantasy and into something infinitely more real and dangerous.

* * *

At Stanford, there was a book tucked into the dark recesses of the library, in the occult section. Sam stumbled across it one day by accident—an innocuous-looking short story collection about how to vanquish different mythological villains. The section on Death, with a capital D, was always something that intrigued Sam, but he never thought it would actually be relevant. Apparently, it’s reasonably common in college libraries all around the country for reasons Sam can’t even begin to fathom. When he mentions the book to Dean, though, trying to sound a lot more confident in its rituals than he feels, Dean’s all for it.  
  
The plan is for Sam to pretend he’s a student and worm his way into the library, which Sam thinks is a ridiculous idea, but when Dean challenges him to find a better plan, he’s stumped—which is how he finds himself in a hooded sweatshirt with a caramel macchiato in one hand and a notebook in the other, convincing the girl in the library that he left his ID in his room and he’s been sexiled, and he’s really, really sorry but he’s got an essay due tonight and his Sociology professor’s a complete hardass, you know, until she relents and waves him inside.  
  
It’s almost too easy—even more so when they realise that everything they need for the ritual the book describes is readily accessible. For the first time in a while, Sam’s feeling confident about their chances.

* * *

Obviously, because nothing ever runs smooth when you’re a Winchester, the ritual fails miserably. The flame flickers and dies, but neither of them moves, knowing that once they get rid of the evidence, their last hope will disappear along with the plants.  
  
“You said it was a long shot,” Dean finally breaks the silence.  
  
Sam sighs, letting his body tip backwards onto the bed as he tucks his hands behind his head. “I also said it was pretty much our only shot,” he points out.   
  
Dean is quiet for a moment before he shrugs, hauling his body up off the end of the bed to collect the grasses that have traitorously not flowered. After he tosses them, he pulls his flask out of his jacket before tilting his head back to take a long drink. Sam just watches, barely concealing the heat in his eyes as he lets his whole body hum with  _want_. He takes the container when Dean offers it to him, raising it to his lips and swallowing deeply.  
  
“It was worth trying,” Dean says as he takes the flask back. Sam snorts, aiming a half-hearted kick in his brother’s direction.  
  
“This isn’t actually making me feel any better.”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Well, I’m fresh out of anything else, man.”  
  
There’s silence for a while before Sam holds his hand out, a wordless request for the whiskey. They pass the drink back and forth for a while, letting the liquor drain their stress away.   
  
When Dean leans back on the bed, Sam pulls himself up on one elbow to hover over him. There’s just enough alcohol buzzing in his system to convince himself that what he’s doing is a good idea as he leans down to kiss his brother softly on the lips before pulling away. Dean’s eyes fly open in shock as he stares at Sam, his mouth opening and closing a few times with no sound coming out.  
  
Sam shrugs, falling back to his own place on the bed. “Just, I’ve been meaning to do that for a while,” he says, baldly honest for the first time in a while. “Sorry.”  
  
Okay, maybe not  _that_  honest. Sam’s never been less sorry for anything in his life.  
  
He expects Dean to demand an explanation, or throw holy water in his face—maybe even throw a punch—but what he doesn’t expect is for Dean to lean over and kiss him back, his tongue slipping between Sam’s lips as he moves his leg to rest between both of Sam’s. Dean’s body is hot, and hard, and hungry pressed up against Sam’s, and Sam would have to be completely mad not to take advantage of that. So, he does.  
  
Later, they’re tangled up in each other—not snuggling, or anything ridiculous like that, but just  _close_ — when Sam clears his throat.  
  
“I know it's weird to thank someone right now, but seriously, thank you,” he whispers. “I didn't think that was ever going to actually happen.”  
  
Dean shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, no one ever expects to actually be doing their bucket list. I get it,” he snorts.   
  
“You read it,” Sam accuses, but there’s no real venom in his voice. He would have done exactly the same thing.  
  
“I’ve had, like, seven dying wishes man,” Dean says, turning away. “It’s cool. Whatever.”  
  
Sam grabs his brother’s arm, yanking him back so they’re lying face to face, their noses almost touching. “Dean, this wasn't some last wish,” he says earnestly. “This is… I've wanted this for a while.”  
  
Dean’s eyes flick away. “No you haven’t,” he says, and Sam doesn’t know whether to kiss him or punch him.  
  
“No offense, but you almost never know what I want,” Sam sighs, opting for the kiss. “This isn't because I think we're dying or something, man. This is because I want us to live.”  
  
And finally,  _finally_ , Dean looks like he believes him.


End file.
